


The Way You Make Me Feel

by maiNuoire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, First Date, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8886868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiNuoire/pseuds/maiNuoire
Summary: *The start of a series that shows Stiles and Derek's relationship growing through a series of vignettes depicting different emotions. Each vignette is a complete ficlet.*
After a fight in which Derek's martyr complex makes another appearance, he struggles to understand Stiles' anger. 
While waiting for Derek to arrive for their first date, Stiles has a minor panic attack about the possible ways that their relationship might go wrong. Lydia helps.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My original plan was for there to be 6-8 vignettes, but I have a tenuous relationship with brevity, so to keep within the word count limit only the first 2 planned bits are included here. There are no cliffhangers, and each one is a complete ficlet on its own. I look forward to writing the rest, and I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Thank you to the promptee for the inspiration!

Anger/Relief

 

The ride home has been silent. Painfully, suffocatingly silent; the weight of Stiles’ emotions pressing down on Derek’s shoulders, his chest. Fear and anger and anxiety rolling off of Stiles in sour waves, cut only slightly by the edge of relief that ebbs at the overwhelming tide of the rest of it.

 

Stiles is sitting in the passenger seat, tightly coiled and practically vibrating with emotion. There are angry red cuts and smudges of dirt on his knuckles, and more dirt and random spatters of blood dot his jeans and his plaid shirt; though it’s harder to see there among the patterned lines, Derek knows they’re there. His own rapidly healing injuries throb in painful sympathy.

 

Derek can feel himself choking on the  _ red-brown-black  _ of Stiles’ feelings, and it tastes like regret. Derek has never wished he was better with words as much as he does in this moment, wished he had the words to cut through the tension in Stiles’ body, the obvious turmoil in his mind. To coax Stiles into telling him what was going on inside his head.

 

He’s on the verge of apologizing, just for something to say, when he realizes they’re back at the loft. He’s barely put the car in park before Stiles is launching himself out of it, slamming the door with a resounding thud and practically stomping his way toward the door.

 

With a sigh, Derek turns off the car and exits quickly, eager to get away from the lingering scent of Stiles’ anger. He gets to his apartment just in time to have the door slammed in his face. After a calming breath and several long blinks to process that yes, a door was actually slammed in his face-- _ his own door _ , even--he finds Stiles pacing in a tight circuit in the entryway. He’s muttering to himself and his hands are making exaggerated movements at his sides. 

 

“Stiles, I--”

 

Stiles stops his pacing and his eyes snap to Derek’s; his hand comes up in a clear sign that Derek should stop talking, so he does. He waits as Stiles’ tightly set jaw relaxes incrementally, his raised, outward facing palm clenches into a fist and then opens again, falling back to his side.

 

Derek can feel the silence again, starting to squeeze around him like a band. He takes a breath that sounds like a gasp, and Stiles’ face does something complicated that Derek wants to interpret as sympathy, but the anger comes back just as quickly as it left.

 

“Derek, you don’t get to just apologize and expect me to tell you it's okay! It's not-- you can't keep doing that! Not after all this time, you can't--” Stiles makes an angry, frustrated sound, cutting off his own rant and raking his hands through his hair.

 

Derek is briefly distracted from his confusion by the desire to run his own fingers through the soft-looking strands to rearrange the mussed hair. It only lasts a fraction of a second, though; the sound of Stiles breathing in, presumably preparing to yell again, brings Derek back to himself. He feels his brows furrow, and almost misses the usual teasing that Stiles throws at him about his “murder brows.”

 

“Stiles, I know you don't want to hear me say ‘I'm sorry,’ but I don't know what I'm being yelled at for, so if you could start with that, I promise I'll try to come up with something better than an apology.” Derek tries to imbue the words with sincerity, he truly means them, but the way Stiles responds by sputtering and doing a very impressive imitation of a growl, he thinks he missed the mark.

 

Stiles’ features settle into clear indignation, his lips tightly pursed, and Derek is struck by the urge to kiss the moue off his face. When Stiles speaks, his voice is edged in his ever-present sarcasm, but still dripping with angry annoyance. “You don’t know why I’m mad? Really, Derek? How many times do we have to have this fight before you get it through your stupid, beautiful head that I don’t need you throwing yourself in harm’s way to save me every goddamned time we go up against the bad guy of the moment!”

 

Now Derek is thoroughly confused and quickly sliding toward his own bout of indignation. “You’re mad at me for saving your life? Are you kidding me, Stiles? What, was it not my turn? In case you’ve missed it these past however many years, saving each other is what we do! What the hell was I supposed to do, huh?Just let that thing kill you? Because if you think for a minute that I’m just going to stand by and watch some monster kick your ass for the sake of your stupid pride, then you aren’t as smart as I thought!”

 

They’re shouting over each other now, neither willing to give an inch, but Derek is still not certain why exactly they’re fighting, only that Stiles’ anger is steeped in so many other feelings that Derek can’t keep them straight.

 

“It’s not about my stupid pride, you idiot!”

 

Derek is at a loss, and his “Then what is is about then?” comes out at full volume but sounding desperate. “Why can’t I save you if you need it? What difference does it make if I get hurt instead of you? I’ll heal!”

 

“Not if you get yourself killed in the process, Derek! It’s not fair of you to ask me to be okay with watching you get injured over and over on my behalf, okay!”

 

Derek can feel his face contort, because he has totally lost the thread of the conversation, though he can now identify fear and guilt on the edges of Stiles’ anger. “What does that even--”

 

“Because I love you, you absolute moron!” Stiles’ shout can probably be heard outside, but it seems to take all the wind out of his sails, because as soon as the proverbial echo of it dies down, he deflates. “I can’t keep doing this, Der. I just… I can’t.”

 

He sounds so defeated, so unlike the cocky, funny persona he tries so hard to project, that Derek’s heart aches a little. And then the declaration that is still hanging between them like a flashing neon sign finally hits him. His jaw drops a little, a surprised huff of realization escaping as his mouth turns slightly up at the corners. “You… what?”

 

Stiles’ eye roll is practically audible. “I know you heard me, Sourwolf.” His arms are crossed defensively, and his scent is starting to change from annoyance to anxiety.

 

Derek takes a few slow, cautious steps toward Stiles, approaching in increments like he’d approach a nervous animal; the irony is not lost on him. “Does that mean you’re never going to say it to me again? Is just this once all I get?” he lets himself tease in a way he can’t ever remember feeling comfortable enough to do before, and he knows it’s just something about Stiles that makes it okay now. “Because I have to say,” he’s standing in front of Stiles now, cautiously reaching one hand up to rest on Stiles’ elbow, fingers curling around his arm reverently as he positions himself so that there are scant inches between them, “if that’s the one and only time you tell me you love me back, I’m going to be pretty disappointed.”

 

Derek takes a moment to appreciate the way Stiles’ eyes dilate and his lips part in surprise as he processes the “back” tacked on to that statement. Then he lifts his other hand to Stiles’ jaw, lets his thumb trace along Stiles’ cheekbone, and hums in satisfaction as he feels Stiles press into his palm.

“You said… You said ‘ _ love me back,’ _ so does that mean that-- I mean, you don’t-- Dammit, Derek, don’t laugh at me, asshole!” Stiles punctuates his statement with an ineffectual slap at Derek’s chest, but any heat in the action is lost when he lets his palm rest where it landed and slowly drags it upward to Derek’s neck.

 

Derek smirks, even as the heat of Stiles’ hand soaks into his skin, sending pleasant warmth through him in little arcs of lightning, and he feels a flush creep up to his face. “Do I also only get to say it once? Are you sure this is when you want to hear it? Don’t want to save it up for--”

 

The warm press of Stiles’ lips cuts him off, and Derek has never been so happy to be interrupted. After the kiss settles into a gentle exchange, Stiles pushes away enough to utter a muffled  _ asshole _ against Derek’s mouth. Derek presses his grin back against Stiles’ and for a moment they just settle into how they fit together.

 

When they part, leaving only enough space between them to look each other in the eye, arms still wrapped around one another, Stiles levels Derek with a challenging look. “You still haven’t said it, Big Guy, and if you want to hear it again, I’m gonna need some  _ quid pro quo _ .”

 

Derek laughs at the faux seriousness in Stiles’ voice, but he can feel the nervousness in him all the same, the vulnerability that he hates to let anyone else see. He runs a hand through Stiles’ hair, finally setting the stray strands back into place, and looks into Stiles’ whiskey-colored eyes. “I love you, too,” he says simply but without a trace of anything but honesty and the relief of being able to say it after so long.

 

“Good,” Stiles replies on a sigh, as he melts back into Derek, his lips finding Derek’s own again, this time with more confidence and a soft exhale.

 

Anxiety/Happiness

 

Stiles hates everything. He hates every piece of clothing he owns, he hates the scratchy sound that the hangers in his closet make as they slide over the rail, he hates that he’s apparently one of those people that tries on their entire wardrobe before a date. 

 

“Ugh, why is everything I own awful! Why did I even agree to this date?” Stiles is pacing now, having thrown yet another shirt onto his bed in defeat. “This was such a bad idea. Why am I doing this? What if he hates purple? Everything was just fine, and then I had to open my big mouth, and now--” He is stopped mid rant by Lydia’s hands on his arms. Despite her height, she manages to be a sufficient roadblock. Her hands are firm but gentle on his biceps, and her stare is steady and fondly exasperated.

 

“Stiles,” she begins, voice laced with amused fondness, “While I won’t argue with you that your wardrobe needs an update, though you have improved since high school, you look good, I promise. I wouldn’t let you leave if you looked like a Sears catalog reject, you know that. Hmm?”

 

Stiles nods defeatedly. “Now, I know I didn’t just hear you wondering why you agreed to a date with Derek Hale, who you have been half in love with since we were sixteen years old, because that would be ridiculous. You said yes because you’ve wanted Derek for over half a decade, which is even longer than you convinced yourself you loved me, by the way,” she says with a small smile and a quick squeeze of his arm.  “And he, apparently, wants you back.” Stiles smiles at the way Lydia unknowingly echoes Derek’s half-assed confession. “And he already knows what you look like, he isn’t going to walk out on your date because you wore purple, honey.”

 

Lydia stares at him pointedly for a long moment, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched, daring him to disagree. He takes a deep breath and exhales loudly, “Okay, you’re right, Lyds. What would I do without you?” He forces a smile and she rolls her eyes fondly, patting his cheek.

 

“Put on the black pants with the blue stitching, they make your butt look amazing,” she says with a wicked grin. Stiles laughs.

 

Twenty minutes later, Stiles is pacing again, though at least this time he’s made it out to the living room. His hands alternate between running absently through his hair--which makes Lydia click her tongue disapprovingly from the overstuffed chair she sits in--and clenching and unclenching at his sides. He can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, and his breath feels like it’s being forced from his lungs. He worries about sweating through his shirt.

 

“I shouldn’t have let him pick the restaurant. What if I’m underdressed, Lyd? If I don’t dress right, he’ll think I don’t care. That I didn’t try enough. That he doesn’t mean-- Fuck!” Stiles grabs his hair with both hands and makes a frustrated sound. Lydia lets him continue, even though his anxiety is starting to make  _ her _ feel antsy and short of breath; she needs to know what he’s thinking so she can defuse it. 

 

“He means, like,  _ everything _ , y’know? Like, not in a possessive way, though yeah, that too. But in a way like we’ve been friends for years, and I already couldn’t imagine my life without him, and if we become an us I don’t think I’ll recover if that stops. Because I think he’s my best friend that isn’t you, and if me telling him I love him ends up screwing up our friendship, I think it’d actually kill me. What did I do, Lyds? What if--” 

 

“Stiles!” She puts just enough power behind it that Stiles jumps a little, stopping his pacing to look at her apologetically. Her face softens at the obviously genuine worry in Stiles’ expression, and she speaks with purposeful fondness. “Everything is going to work out. Breathe for me, okay? In, two, three, four; out, two, three, four… Good. You’re doing good.” Stiles breathes like he’s been told to for a few long moments, until he can no longer feel his heart hammering against his ribcage. Lydia raises a questioning eyebrow at him, and he nods, waving at her to indicate his acquiescence to the speech he knows is coming.

 

“You and Derek have been through near-death experiences and literal nightmares together, I think you can make it through a night at a nice restaurant. And,” she crosses the room to take his hand and drag him to the couch, “besides all that, you two just fit together, you always have. He’s the only one aside from me that can match your sarcasm, and he still finds your terrible jokes--” Stiles makes an affronted noise and Lydia hides a grin, “and your constant pop culture references to be endearing. And you, you put up with his moods, and don’t let him get stuck in them. You let him be himself, nerdy tendencies, and eyebrows, and all. You’re going to be great together, whatever happens.”

 

Stiles takes a deep breath, his eyes shutting briefly, as he lets his head fall back against the back of the couch and releases his breath with a loud rush of air, just short of a rude noise. “We do make sense, right? I know we do. I’m just. I don’t want to screw it up this time, Lyd.”

 

“So don’t. Not that I think Derek would let you.” They’re both quiet for a minute, the silence comfortable after their years of friendship. When Stiles sits up again, he turns toward Lydia and apologizes. “Don’t be sorry,” she says, “what are best friends for? Now tell me about work while I fix your hair.”

 

Her face scrunches in disapproval at the disarray on his head, and as she starts to rearrange his hair, he huffs out a laugh and tells a story about a co-worker he was having a passive-aggressive war with over stolen items from the break room fridge. Lydia’s phone makes a soft beep as Stiles begins talking about a _really important_ _sandwich_ that had been pilfered. After she checks it, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, she stands up and smooths her skirt.

 

“As much as I want to hear about the epic tale of your lunch war, I have to go. I can’t wait to hear about your date, though. I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?” Stiles stands up to walk her out, thanking her again for her general existence. She kisses his cheek at the door, wiping away the faint impression her lipstick leaves behind. “Have a great time tonight. Don’t forget to breathe.” Lydia slaps Stiles’ hand away from his head, where it was just about to rake through his hair. “And don’t touch your hair!”

 

“Okay, okay! Sorry! I just--”

 

“I know. Good night, Stiles.”

 

As he shuts the door behind her, he checks his watch. Derek will be there to pick him up in twenty minutes. He goes to the bathroom to check his hair and splash some water on his face. Then he goes to the kitchen and washes his coffee mug from that morning. Then he wipes the kitchen counters and the table. Then he checks his watch again; ten more minutes.

 

He fluffs the pillows on his bed, then smooths out the blanket. He hangs up a few rejected shirts, checks the mirror to be sure his shirt is tucked in properly, checks his shoes for dirt. Two more minutes.

 

Stiles wanders into the entryway, standing by to answer the door. After thirty seconds, he starts shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. He forces himself to stop, but then his foot starts tapping anxiously. He starts pacing again, pausing to adjust picture frames and fidget with knick-knacks on his bookshelves. When his watch tells him that Derek should arrive… five minutes ago, he starts feeling dizzy. He bends over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

 

“It’s okay. He’s just late. Derek is not standing you up. It’s fine. It’s fine it’s fine it’s-- Shit.” He starts counting, trying to get his breathing under control. It takes him a minute to realize that the knocking is at the door, and not the sound of his blood rushing through his head. He stands up with a quick inhale and practically trips over himself rushing to the door.

 

When he opens it, he finds Derek anxiously adjusting his jacket and smoothing his shirt down. When he looks up at the sound of Stiles’ gasped “Hey,” their eyes meet and for a moment all either can do is smile at each other.

 

“Sorry I’m late,” Derek says, a hint of red spreading across his cheeks, “I, uh, couldn’t decide what to wear,” he admits with a soft laugh. “I had to ask Lydia for help.”

 

Stiles laughs, muttering “ _ That’s where she ran off to, _ ” before reaching out to take Derek’s hand, lacing their fingers together and letting them swing lightly between them. “You’re here now, so it’s okay,” Stiles says, and is surprised by how much he means it. Derek is here, holding his hand and grinning at him, and Stiles feels any lingering anxiety melt away. 

 

“So, should we head to dinner now?” Derek asks, smiling down at their joined hands.

 

Stiles shakes his head, “Just a minute, I need to do one thing first,” he says seriously. Derek raises a curious eyebrow, a small curve at one corner of his mouth before it rounds with surprise when Stiles closes the space between them. “I'm going to kiss you now, so if you have any objections you shou--”

 

They're kissing then, a soft slide, their lips fitting together as though they've done this for ages. Stiles tilts his head to deepen the kiss, and when Derek’s tongue teases at his top lip, Stiles moans slightly, and his arms tighten where they’re wrapped around Derek’s neck. It’s an uncertain amount of time later when they part, foreheads resting together. Derek has one hand threaded in Stiles’ hair, the other spread at the small of his back, and his eyes stay half lidded for a moment. 

 

“You smell like… springtime,” Derek says, voice full of wonder.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like this before,” Stiles breathes into the space between them, a smile making his words come out sounding reverent. Derek hums his agreement and runs his hand through Stiles hair. “If Lydia finds out my hair got messed up, I’m sending her your way, Big Guy.”

 

Derek laughs brightly, and Stiles feels it rush through him like a physical force, filling him up with a light effervescence that makes his heart swell. He definitely hasn’t felt like this before, and he doesn’t think he could be happier about it.

 

“Do you think we missed our reservation?” Stiles asks suddenly, worried he’s messed up their plans (not that he could be sorry about that kiss).

 

Derek shrugs, “If we can’t get in, we’ll grab a pizza. I just want to be with you, everything else… doesn’t really matter.” Though Stiles has sometimes wished for the extra sensory boost that comes with being a werewolf, he doesn’t need to be able to hear Derek’s heartbeat to know he’s being sincere. 

 

He was wrong about being happier, but he has a feeling that Derek will keep proving him wrong. He feels pretty happy about that, too.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come see me on   
> [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/poetry-protest-pornography)  
> 


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